


The End of the Road

by theimprobable1



Series: The End of the Road [1]
Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hiatus, Love Triangle, M/M, Reichenbach Falls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-28
Updated: 2011-08-28
Packaged: 2017-10-23 03:50:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/245995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theimprobable1/pseuds/theimprobable1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock's death at the Reichenbach falls, John finds solace with an airline captain who bears an uncanny resemblance to the detective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Beta-ed by [](http://kim47.livejournal.com/profile)[**kim47**](http://kim47.livejournal.com/) \- thank you!

One of the strangest things about John Watson is the way he can’t seem to stop looking at Martin. Martin is under no illusions about his appearance – he knows very well that there is nothing remotely attractive about him. John, however, seems to find his face endlessly fascinating, his eyes are constantly drawn to it. It’s a bit disconcerting, but it’s also really nice. No one has ever wanted to look at Martin before.

Then there’s the fact that John seems to enjoy spending time with Martin. He actively seeks contact, texts him, calls him, invites him for drinks, _asks him out,_ and doesn’t tire of his company. John Watson, an ex-army doctor and a published writer, good-looking and kind and easy-going, who could have anyone he wanted, and he wants Martin.  Awkward, inept, boring Martin, who’s never even held hands with anyone before.

It’s no wonder that Martin falls in love, and fast.

The book John had written is a collection of short stories about a private detective called Sherlock Holmes, a friend of John’s who died last year in Switzerland. It’s obvious, both from the short stories and the way he sometimes talks about Sherlock, that John was more than a little in love with him. It’s also obvious that he’s still grieving, and of course that means that he cannot fully return Martin’s feelings. But that’s all right, Martin tells himself. Maybe it will change with time, and if it doesn’t, well, that’s all right too.  Martin isn’t going to be jealous of someone who’s dead, he’s not going to ruin one of the very few good things in his life by asking for more than he can have. He’d given up on trying to find someone who would want a relationship with him long ago, and John appears to be genuinely fond of him. It’s enough. Really.

It feels so wonderful to have someone to spend time with, someone to hold him close, touch him, kiss him, care about what happens to him. John doesn’t mind that Martin is so inexperienced; he’s gentle and exceedingly patient with him, always making sure that Martin is comfortable and sometimes smiling at him like Martin is amazing, and he makes Martin feel good about himself. Martin is still awkward at times, but it doesn’t matter to him anymore because it doesn’t matter to John. John would never mock him. John likes Martin the way he is, never attempting to change him, and that’s more than Martin had ever dared to hope for. He’s _happy_.

*

John knows that it’s a big mistake, that he’ll end up hurting both himself and Martin, but he can’t help himself. He moved out of London in order not to be reminded of Sherlock at every step, and then he decided that it was a good idea to start dating a man who looks so much like Sherlock it’s uncanny. It was a terrible idea, he knows it, but he can’t let go now that he has found the only thing that makes him hurt a little less: knowing that this way he’ll never forget Sherlock’s face, the sound of his voice.

As well as the similarities, there are also many differences, but they don’t matter when Sherlock’s eyes look at him in ways they never had in Sherlock’s lifetime – filled with tenderness and desire and undisguised affection.

John does his best to make Martin happy, tries to fulfil his every wish in a cheap attempt to make the fact that he’s using him seem less horrible. It doesn’t work.


	2. Chapter 2

It happens by accident.

John let it slip once that he used to have a blog, and Martin remembers it when a flight is cancelled at the last minute and he has nothing to do. He doesn’t know much about John’s life before him – he knows about Sherlock, of course, but that’s all. So he looks up the blog and finds that it’s still online, even though it hasn’t been updated for nearly two years.

He starts at the beginning. There’s nothing much before John’s first meeting with Sherlock, and then their first case, A Study in Pink, that Martin has already read in John’s book. And then…

And then there is a post where John put pictures of himself and Sherlock so that the criminals of London don’t confuse them. And that’s where Martin stops reading and just stares, because Sherlock looks so much like him he could be his brother (much more like him than his actual brother).

Surely the photo must be somehow distorted or something, Martin thinks, a terrible suspicion pooling in his gut. He googles ‘Sherlock Holmes’ and finds more pictures of him, mostly in news articles, but none of them are clear enough – Sherlock obviously didn’t like being photographed by the press. Martin knows where he has to look.

There is a strange, heavy feeling at the bottom of his stomach when he opens John’s wardrobe and finds the box that he knows is there – he’s seen John hide it away hastily several times. It has never occurred to Martin to look inside the box – he and John live together in a very tiny flat, but that doesn’t mean they don’t respect each other’s privacy. Even now, when he has to know, has to find out, Martin feels terrible for betraying John’s trust as he opens the box.

The first thing that catches his eye is a dark blue scarf, very soft – cashmere, Martin thinks, though he’s not sure. A bright yellow post-it note that reads ‘Don’t touch the intestines.’ (Or perhaps something else that makes more sense. The handwriting his terrible.) And then, finally, a framed photograph with fingerprints clearly visible on the glass.

It’s a candid picture, taken in what seems to be a restaurant, of John and Sherlock smiling at each other, Sherlock’s hand lifted in a wild gesture. And Sherlock looks exactly like Martin might have looked if he was tall, dark-haired and… not Martin. He wears Martin’s features, the exact same features, in a way that makes them look good. They are so similar that it makes all the little differences stand out: the way Sherlock’s skin is ethereally pale and Martin’s reddish and freckled, Sherlock’s dark curls falling in his eyes in a Byronic-hero fashion and Martin’s frizzy ginger mop, the way he radiates confidence and success and Martin only insecurity and failure.

Despite the unflattering comparison, the resemblance is striking, and what Martin wondered about for months is now absolutely clear. He never understood what John saw in him, but now he does. He’s a substitute. A stand-in for someone John can no longer have.

He should have realised that something was wrong sooner. Nobody wanted him for thirty-three years, why should someone want him now? Of course it was too good to be true, that someone amazing could come along and be interested in him. Of course there had to be catch.

Does John think about Sherlock when he’s kissing Martin? When he’s making love to him? Does he wake up every morning and cringe with disappointment when it’s Martin lying next to him? Why did Martin ever let himself believe that something good could be happening to him?

He closes the box after carefully arranging the items the way they were before, and curls up on the bed. Their bed that John imagines sharing with someone else. He tries not to cry, and fails.

*

Right. He has to pull himself together. It wouldn’t do for John to find him snivelling like the pathetic  failure that he is. He blows his nose noisily and thinks about what to do.

He should probably break things off with John and leave. He thinks about the awful attic room he used to live in before, the loneliness, and he doubts he can live like that again when he’s known something better, even though it’s not what he thought it was.

He sighs. All things considered, it’s not so terrible, is it? He’d already known that John wasn’t in love with him. This doesn’t really change anything. So John is with him only because Martin reminds him of Sherlock. At least he has a _reason_ to be with him. It’s far from perfect, but it’s clearly the best Martin can have. It’s been made clear to him many times that there’s nothing about him that could tempt anyone, so it’s actually a lucky coincidence that he looks like Sherlock, because otherwise John would never have given him a second look, and that means that _no one_ would  ever give him a second look.

He’s better with John than he was before. He really doesn’t have any right to complain. Sherlock’s dead. He’s not going to come and take John away, which means John is going to stay with Martin, at least unless Martin starts boring him. Which means that Martin has a perfectly nice boyfriend who is kind to him, so what does it matter _why_ he is kind to him? Martin should learn to be satisfied with what he has and stop being greedy.

“Martin?”

Martin flinches. He was so lost in thought that he didn't John come home. He glances at the computer screen in panic, since he doesn’t remember closing the browser window, and is relieved to find that the screensaver is on.

“What’s the matter?” John asks softly, coming to sit beside Martin. His eyes are full of warmth and concern, and surely it can’t be all fake? Surely he must care for Martin at least a little?

“Nothing,” Martin says. “I – nothing. I’m fine. Fine. Perfectly fine. Fine.”

John rests a gentle hand on Martin’s cheek.  “You know I don’t believe anything you say four times.”

“I’ve… just had  a bad day, that’s all,” Martin lies.

John pulls him close, drawing soothing circles on Martin’s back. “Are you sure there’s nothing else?”

“Do you think I should dye my hair black?” Martin blurts out without thinking. God, is he going to try to look even _more_ like Sherlock to make sure John doesn’t leave him? He’s so needy, it’s pitiful.

“What? Why?” John asks, tensing.

“I just… My hair’s kind of ridiculous. I was just thinking it would make me look… more dignified. As a captain.”

John relaxes again, and his hand comes up to stroke Martin’s hair.

“Is that why you’re all upset?” he asks.

Martin makes a noncommittal sound and John kisses the top of his head. It’s nice. So what if John imagines he’s kissing someone else? It’s still nice to have strong arms holding him. It’s good. Maybe if he repeats it to himself enough times, he’ll believe it.

“Your hair isn’t ridiculous,” John murmurs. “I, for one, happen to think it’s lovely.”

*

John makes lasagne Bolognese for dinner, Martin’s favourite, in an attempt to cheer him up. Martin’s sitting on the sofa, bony knees drawn close to his chest, watching TV and looking quite forlorn and miserable. John wonders if something happened that Martin doesn’t want to talk to him about, or if it’s a kind of dejection that comes without any particular reason. They’ve only been living together for a little over a month; it’s possible that Martin sometimes succumbs to a bout of depression and it just hadn’t happened in front of John before. Maybe it’s a bit like Sherlock’s black moods that would sometimes – no. No. Stop that train of thought.

He’s glad that he managed to talk Martin out of the intention to dye his hair. It’s not that the idea of Martin with black hair isn’t tempting – it is, very much so. If a dark-haired Martin was sleeping, or reading a book, not talking and not moving, the illusion would be perfect. But it would be too much. It’s sometimes too much already, when it isn’t too little.

John tells Martin funny stories about his patients while they eat, but Martin’s laugh is forced and short-lived. They do the washing up in silence and then curl up together to watch telly, and after a while Martin relaxes against him a little.

Martin reminds John of a kitten sometimes; he likes to be petted, leaning into the smallest touch. It breaks John’s heart and makes him impossibly angry to know that it’s because Martin didn’t have nearly enough physical affection in the past. And there are also the tiny mewing noises he makes during sex that make John want to hold him close and keep him safe. Sherlock was more like a pampered house cat gone wild, and of course John has no idea what kind of noises he made in bed, he never even got a chance to find out whether Sherlock was even interested in this kind of thing. Probably not, and in any case –

Martin shifts against him, tucking his head under John’s chin. John feels ashamed of himself. Can’t he manage a day without thinking about Sherlock, missing him? It’s been two years and it still _hurts_ , and by now John has given up hope that it’s ever going to stop. He hates it, hates it, since he knows it means he’ll never be able to love Martin fully, and there’s no one he knows that deserves to be loved more than Martin. John should be grateful to have him, he _is_ grateful to have him, and yet even as he holds him he can’t stop his thoughts from slipping to Sherlock.

Instinctively, John tightens his grip on Martin.  Martin lifts his head, his soft, sad eyes looking up at John devotedly. John kisses the perfectly bowed, eagerly responding lips and hopes beyond hope one day to be able to love Martin at least half as much as the man deserves.

“Feeling any better?” John asks.

Martin nods. “It’s okay. Stop worrying so much.”

John would stop worrying if the worry wasn’t for the better part a disguised sense of guilt. Every time Martin is less than happy, it makes John wonder whether it’s somehow his fault, the guiltiness that never quite lies dormant flaring up with renewed force.

John turns the TV off. There was an episode of _Poirot_ on, one of those with Hastings in them, and John can’t stand those.

“I think I should take you to bed,” he whispers. “There are probably one or two things I could do to chase your grim thoughts away, hmm?”

Martin just smiles at him, always so endearingly shy, though there’s something else in his expression too, something that John can’t quite pinpoint. The only thing he knows is that it makes him strengthen his resolve to be good to Martin, to do everything he can to prevent hurting him.

Somehow, he has a feeling that he already has.

*

It’s a Monday and John is an exceptionally good mood. He and Martin had spent a very nice weekend in Kent, going for walks, paddling in the sea, and kissing in the sunshine. Martin looked so lovely, with ruffled hair and cheeks reddened from the wind and a bright smile on his face; it made John feel ten years younger. They’d also visited Martin’s sister Caitlin and her family, and seeing Martin playing with his two young nieces had done _things_ to John that he hadn’t considered possible.

John hasn’t thought about the future in any concrete terms since Sherlock died, but now he finds himself considering a house with a garden, marriage, children. The kind of life that he thought he would have, before Afghanistan and before Sherlock.

Thinking about it makes him feel so good, because it means that he’s made it, even when he thought it was impossible. He still misses Sherlock, he’ll never stop missing Sherlock, but he feels like he’s arrived at a point where he can tuck Sherlock in a secret compartment of his heart and thus make enough room for Martin. Soon, he thinks, soon he’ll be able to say “I love you” and mean it, be sure that he means it. Not like he loved Sherlock (he doesn’t think it’s possible to love like that more than once in a lifetime) – in a gentler, more subdued way, but no less truly. He imagines the look on Martin’s face when he says it, he imagines Martin saying it back…

John feels exhilarated with the knowledge that finally, _finally_ , after a year and a half of knowing each other and eight months of living together, he can give Martin a measure of what he deserves (not everything, unfortunately – Martin deserves a far better man than John is, one whose heart doesn’t have secret compartments – but enough, he hopes, _he believes_ ).

He thinks about coming home this evening and taking Martin out for dinner, or perhaps getting take away, and listening to Martin talk about today’s flight to Manchester and then making love to him on top of the covers, and he can’t wait until his shift at the surgery is over. It’s with a sense of relief and impatience that he buzzes in his last patient of the day.

And then it all turns upside down.

For a split second he thinks that Martin must have gone back to the discarded idea of dyeing his hair, except Martin couldn’t have made himself taller and he couldn’t have made himself so unmistakeably… Sherlock-like.

“John,” says the man who must but can’t be Sherlock.

It’s Sherlock’s voice, almost like Martin’s but different, different timbre, different inflection, and Sherlock’s eyes, greyer and colder than Martin’s but equally soft now, Sherlock’s face, Sherlock’s skin, so different from Martin, how could John have forgotten all the tiny, vitally important details?

John releases the breath he didn’t realise he was holding.

“You…” he says, and he doesn’t know what he wants to say. You’re not dead. You’re alive. You’re a hallucination, aren’t you? You’re a proof I’ve finally gone mad.

“Yes,” Sherlock says, his eyes searching John’s face in a way that’s so familiar it hurts. “I’m sorry, John, I’m so…”

He doesn’t finish, because John has knocked his chair over, made three long steps towards Sherlock, yanked his head down and now he’s kissing him, he’s kissing him and Sherlock is kissing him back and it’s real, Sherlock’s real, there is no way John could have imagined this, not this, never this, not the taste of Sherlock’s mouth, the insistent movements of his tongue, his hands grabbing fistfuls of John’s shirt, his teeth, the sudden metallic taste of blood.

He pulls away, taking in the sight of Sherlock’s flushed face, his heaving chest, his kiss-swollen lips, of Sherlock being so very _alive_ , and suddenly the only thing John can do is lift his hand and punch Sherlock in the face.

It’s not a very hard blow – John is too dazed to muster any real strength – but his knuckles still tingle from it, and Sherlock lets out a pained grunt.

“I suppose I deserved that,” Sherlock says, rubbing his jaw. His gaze is fixed on John, as if he can’t get enough of looking at him.

“Yes, you… you did, you… you fucking _bastard_ , how could… how _did_ you… did you think about how I… Oh god.”

He can’t string a coherent sentence together, and he slumps on the examination bed before his knees give out.

“I am sorry, John,” Sherlock says, his voice low. “I’ll understand if you can’t forgive me, but you must believe me that it was the only way, the only way to keep you safe, and I had to keep you safe, do you understand?”

John shakes his head. “Explain,” he says hoarsely, and Sherlock does, but there was never really any question of John not forgiving him. He shouldn’t forgive him, he knows he shouldn’t, but how could he when he’s so indescribably glad that Sherlock is standing in front of him?

Sherlock’s voice washes over him, and John feels like he can breathe properly for the first time in almost three years.

*

“Oh thank god!”

Martin’s voice reaches John as he opens the door to their flat, and in an instant Martin comes hurrying from the bedroom. “Where have you been? I called you at least a dozen times, I was so worried! Why didn’t you…”

His voice trails off as John leans against the door, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.

“You look like death,” Martin says, his tone immediately changing from angry to concerned. “Come and sit down.”

Martin ushers him to the tiny kitchenette. John sits down at the neatly-scrubbed table, burying his face in his hands. He doesn’t know what to do. He spent two hours with Sherlock, and then three hours on his own, walking across Fitton and trying to figure out what to do, and he still doesn’t know.

He wants to go back to London with Sherlock, catch the last of Moriarty’s men, and then start again, crime fighting and adrenaline and body parts in the fridge and no privacy whatsoever, and something more this time too. Everything he missed for the last three years, and everything he’d wanted much longer than that.  He could have it now, all of it. There’s nothing stopping him.

Martin puts a cup of tea in front him. His kind, sweet Martin. Just this afternoon John was thinking about marrying him, living a normal life with him in calm and order and quiet happiness, and it seems so long ago now. But he could still have that, too.

Except that he couldn’t. The only way to be with Martin now would be to never see Sherlock again. He can’t have both of them. And he can’t let Sherlock go, he can’t.

Can he?

“What happened?” Martin asks, rubbing John’s upper arm gently. If only he wasn’t such a good person, then maybe it would be easier.

He should stay with him. He should choose what’s best for Martin, Martin, who had to doubt John’s feelings for him for so long but still stayed, who gave everything and asked for nothing but a few kind words and gentle touches. He should stay with him and strive to make him happy.

Would he be able to do that, though, knowing that Sherlock is just an hour by train away? How would he manage not to get sucked into Sherlock’s orbit? But even if he achieved that, he’d still _want_ to be with Sherlock, because it’s physically impossible for him not to. He’d be deceiving Martin again.

He thinks about Sherlock sighing, “I missed you every day, John,” after he had finished talking and sunk to his knees beside John, resting his head on John’s thigh and leaving a wet patch on his trousers. He thinks about Martin in his ridiculously large pyjamas with smiling aeroplanes on them (a gift from Arthur), snuggling close to John. He thinks about the glint in Sherlock’s eye when he’s discovered the final clue.

“Sherlock’s alive,” he says, and it doesn’t sound like his voice.

Martin blinks at him. “What?”

“Sherlock’s alive. He faked his death so he could track down Moriarty’s henchmen. He… I didn’t know. He came to my office today and… he’s alive.”

The silence that follows is terrible. John stares at his tea that he knows has exactly the right amount of milk and sugar in it, unable to look at Martin. Then he hears Martin release a shuddering breath, and he finally lifts his head to look at him.

All colour has drained from his face and he’s looking at John with wide eyes. They never spoke about what exactly John had felt for Sherlock, but of course Martin knew, and he knows what’s going on now.

Martin gives him what John is sure was meant to be a smile, but it looks more like a grimace of agony.

“You must be very glad,” he says, voice expressionless.

“Martin, I’m…” John begins lamely. “I mean… look, it’s…”

“It’s all right,” Martin says. “You don’t have to explain anything to me. I understand. Of course. Of course I… completely.”

He stands up, not meeting John’s eyes.

“Martin—“

“Drink your tea, John,” Martin says, his voice breaking on John’s name, and the bedroom door closes softly behind him.

*

Martin slides down with his back against the door. He wraps his arms around his knees and rests his forehead on them, trying to keep his breathing under control.

Was there ever anyone who had worse luck than he has? How likely is it that the man your boyfriend loves will come back from the dead? Why did it have to happen to him? Can nothing ever work out well for him? Can’t he have anything, anything at all? Was he really asking too much?

He thought things were going well. He thought John had come to like him as Martin and not just as a Sherlock lookalike. A couple of times he caught John looking at him with a strange, soft look in his eyes, and he thought they could build something real together, even if John couldn’t forget Sherlock. But that’s all gone now. Even if John cares about him, what chance does he have against Sherlock Holmes?

If he could at least be sure that Sherlock would treat John well, that John would be happy with him. But what sort of person lets someone who loves them believe they’re dead? That’s just _cruel._ Someone who is capable of that is surely unable to love John Watson properly. Not like Martin does.

There is a knock on the door.

“Martin? Can I… Can I come in?”

Oh. John probably wants to pack his things. Of course. Martin stands up shakily and takes a deep breath.

“Yes,” he says, and he hates how his voice sounds. He bets Sherlock’s voice never sounds so pathetic.

John opens the door slowly, as if afraid to make any sudden movements, looking distressed. His lower lip is split. Martin doesn’t want to know how it happened.

“Martin,” John says quietly. “I… I don’t even know what to say.”

“Don’t say anything, then. You love him and you want to be with him. I get it.” He swallows, turning his back to John.  “Are you… going back to London with him?”

John is silent for a moment, and then sighs, “I don’t know.”

Martin flinches at this, because it sounds almost as if John was trying to decide whether he shouldn’t stay with him, but soon he realises what he must mean. He means that they might want to stay in Fitton, and then of course Martin would be in the way.

“Oh. Of course. I didn’t… Yes. If you can just give me a day or two to find a place to stay and then I’ll…”

“What? No, no! I’m not throwing you out of the flat! I just… really don’t know what to do.”

He sounds torn, and Martin feels a tiny chance, a possibility, maybe… But no, no. It’s just John feeling guilty about leaving him, not actually wanting to stay.

“Don’t worry about me, John. I know you love him, and I know why you chose to be with me. I’ve known for a long time. I don’t expect you to stay with me.”

“You knew?” John breathes, sounding horrified. “Oh god.” He sits down the bed. “Oh god. I’m so sorry. I honestly never meant to hurt you, I had no idea, I thought you were… happy, mostly. I’m so sorry.”

“It was all right. I got used to it. It’s not so bad, you know, being second best, when the real thing could never come back. But that’s just my terrible luck, I suppose.”

He doesn’t know how much longer he can take. He can feel an outburst approaching, and he’d prefer if John didn’t have to witness it. Save at least a bit of his dignity.

“Martin, you…” John seems almost on the verge of tears. “You’re the real thing, too. I admit it was your looks I was first drawn to, yes, and I’m not proud of it, but you’re your own person. I love you for who _you_ are, I…”

Martin lost hope that John would say those three words to him long ago, if he had ever hoped at all to begin with, but now that he hears them, he can’t find any meaning in them.

“But you love him more, so what does it matter?”

“It matters a lot, Martin, I…”

Martin shakes his head.

“Just go, John. I need… I think I need to be alone for a while. Please. Just… go.”

He can feel John looking at back of his head for a while, and then he can hear him leaving, and then there’s silence.

*

 _Right. Breathe, just breathe_ , John tells himself as he leans against the door, unable to shake off the feeling that he’s just made everything much worse.

He understands why Martin isn’t particularly keen on his company right now (if John could, he would get away from himself, too), but he doesn’t like the idea of Martin spending the night alone. He considers his options, and then fishes out his phone and calls Arthur.

“Hi, John!” Arthur excited voice greets him. “How are you? Are you angry about Skip’s hat? Because that wasn’t my fault, I swear, it was the microwave!”

“What? No, this isn’t about Martin’s hat.”

“Oh good. Because I really wouldn’t like you to be angry with me, and…”

“Listen, Arthur,” John interrupts him. “I… Martin needs your help.”

“Ooh! Moving things in his van again?”

“No. Do you think you could come to our place… in an hour or so?”  He should probably give Martin some time to spend on his own.

“’Course,” Arthur agrees immediately.

“Just keep ringing the bell until he opens the door, all right? And if he doesn’t open, call me.”

“Okay,” Arthur agrees without hesitation. “What’s going on?”

John hesitates. “Erm… Martin will tell you.” Or not. “You won’t forget?”

“Of course not. Your place, in an hour. Got it!”

“Right,” John sighs. “Thank you.”

He hangs up, hoping that calling Arthur was the right decision. He feels at a loss what to do now – he thinks that the best option would be to turn into someone else – but before he can really make a conscious decision, his legs seem to be carrying him towards the hotel where he knows Sherlock is staying.  As soon as he realises that that’s where he’s going, he suddenly can’t wait, to see Sherlock again, to make sure that he wasn’t just some wonderful yet terrible figment of his imagination.

An intoxicating thought presents itself to him – of spending the night in Sherlock’s room, _with Sherlock_ , but he banishes it quickly, before it can become too detailed. He checks into a room of his own instead, and then knocks on Sherlock’s door with a vague feeling of trepidation.

Sherlock opens the door almost instantly, as if he’d been standing right behind it, expecting him. His hair is in disarray – he’s obviously been dragging his fingers through it in agitation.  When his eyes fall on John, a pleased smile appears on his face.

“John,” he says, cautious hope shining in his eyes.

John just stares at him for a moment, and then says, “You’re really still here.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, his smile partly fading. “I… Come in.”

As soon as the door closes behind them, John’s hands come up automatically to touch Sherlock’s arms, his chest, his neck, his face. Sherlock mirrors his movements hesitantly, as if unsure whether he’s allowed.

They spend a while like that, almost in an embrace but not quite. Sherlock scans John’s face, and whispers, “You haven’t… you haven’t decided yet.”

John moves away from Sherlock’s arms abruptly, suddenly almost angry. He turns away from him, noticing the typical Sherlockian mess everywhere in the room.

“Of course I haven’t. I can’t… It’s not so easy, Sherlock. You can’t just disappear for three years and then come back and think everything will be fine. I… I thought you were dead. Do you even… do you even realise what that means? Did you ever stop to consider how it made me feel?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says softly, and when John looks at him again his shoulders are hunched in a way that makes him appear smaller than he is. “I didn’t like doing it, John. But I had to.”

“You had to,” John sneers. “Yes, to protect me. As if I was afraid of danger.”

“I know you weren’t. Aren’t. But I – I was. They could’ve… used you as leverage. Don’t you see? I had to convince them that you didn’t matter to me, that hurting you would do them no good. I didn’t see any other way to do it.”

“You could have just _told me_. I could have pretended not to know.”

“Then I apologise for not having had enough faith in your acting abilities, but I couldn’t take the risk. I couldn’t. I’d rather have you hating me than…” He doesn’t finish, as if the other possibility was too terrible to even contemplate.

“You lied to me in the worst possible way.”

“I know. I am sorry.”

“So you’ve said, but it isn’t a magic word that solves everything, Sherlock! I struggled to move on and build a new life and now it’s all falling apart again and I don’t know what to do!”

Sherlock turns away slightly, looking at the floor.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have revealed myself to you.”

John frowns. “What?”

“I wasn’t planning this, John,” Sherlock sighs. “I… had information about you from Mycroft. I knew you had a new home and a new job and a new… relationship. I knew you seemed reasonably happy of late. I came back to England in disguise, and I just wanted to… see you. I didn’t want to disrupt your new life; I just wanted to assure myself that you were all right. But when I saw you… I couldn’t resist. I had to speak to you, try to get you back.” He smiled ruefully. “You know I’m selfish. I failed to consider how it would affect you. I’m sorry.”

He falls silent, and John looks at him from almost the other side of the room, not knowing what to say.

Sherlock moves to the window, and then begins speaking again, very quietly.

“If… you think it would help… I could disappear again. You’d never hear of me again, I promise. You could keep your new life.”

John is struck speechless for a moment.

“But you… I thought you wanted to come back, be consulting detective again.”

“Crime happens everywhere in the world.”

“You love London.”

“Not only London, John. I don’t wish to cause you more pain than I already have. If you feel that you can be happy with him and that I would… complicate matters by staying here, then… you just have to say the word.”

It could solve everything, theoretically. John could tell Martin he wants him and only him, they could have everything he’d imagined earlier today. There would be no temptation. Theoretically.

“No,” he says determinedly, walking up to Sherlock and forcing him to look at him. “No. You can’t. You can’t leave without trace again. No. Just no.”

Sherlock watches him with uncharacteristically gentle eyes, and John can do nothing but pull him into a hug. Sherlock’s arms envelop him instantly, holding him tight. He burrows his face between John’s neck and shoulder, exhaling shakily, and doesn’t let go.

*

Martin listens to the soft sounds of an empty flat: the fridge humming gently in the kitchen, the rustle of leaves outside, the odd car passing in the street. He should get used to the silence - no quiet sounds of someone else living here too, no conversations, no laughter, nothing. It’s all over now. He’s going to be alone again.

He wonders what John is doing right now. Is he going to see Sherlock? Are they going to… rip each other’s clothes off and have wild sex? Or maybe… maybe they already have. Maybe Sherlock left more marks on John’s body than just the split lip.

He takes a deep breath, trying to fight the surge of nausea threatening to overwhelm him. What does it matter, whether they have or are going to? Today, tomorrow or next week, what difference does it make? John is leaving him anyway. He loved the kind of life he led with Sherlock, he’ll want to have it back, now that he can.

Martin lies down on the bed, hugging John’s pillow, breathing in the comforting scent of his hair and skin.

Or perhaps, Martin’s treacherous brain suggests, perhaps Sherlock doesn’t feel that way about John. Maybe he’s offering only friendship and adventure, not love. That would be enough to take John away, but this way perhaps he could take Martin with him. And then… and then John would spend all his days with Sherlock, solving cases and catching criminals, and he would only come to Martin at night, sharing his bed and nothing else. It would be awful and humiliating, but Martin thinks that he would still take it. He loves John, and he’s not completely stupid: he knows that it would be his only chance not to spend the rest of his life alone. He’d take it.

Perhaps after some time John would get fed up with Sherlock not returning his feelings and fall out of love with him, and then Martin would be right there, waiting for him with open arms.

God, he’s laughable. Martin Crieff – mediocre at what he loves, terrible at everything else; no luck, no skills, no self-confidence and now, no self-respect. _Worthless._

And of course that’s not what’s going to happen. John seemed to be feeling so guilty, which indicates that his feelings for Sherlock are reciprocated. And even if not, he wouldn’t use Martin like that. So yes, Martin really has no chance at all.

He can already imagine next Christmas, Simon and Caitlin exchanging glances over the table that clearly say “I knew he wouldn’t be able to keep him.” And even sooner than that, he’ll have to face Douglas and Carolyn and Arthur and own up to another failure. And before that, he’s somehow going to have to deal with it himself, and he has no idea how he’s going to do that.

It shouldn’t be so difficult, since it’s what he’s been doing ever since he can remember: falling and then getting up and trying again or moving on, and then falling again, and again, and again, like a vicious circle. He should be used to it by now, but every time it seems more and more difficult to find motivation to go on. It would be so much easier to just… give up.

It’s been a long time since he last had these thoughts, and they seem much more terrible and frightening now. Nobody would miss him. It would probably take them ages to notice that he wasn’t there. But it wouldn’t matter, because Martin wouldn’t know anything anymore. Nothing would hurt.

Except that he’s the only pilot in Europe willing to work for free, and the existence of MJN Air depends on him. Yes. There’s that, at least. A little way in which he is useful. And he loves doing it, too. He should think about that. They’re flying to Monte Carlo the day after tomorrow. Maybe the hotel they’ll be staying at won’t be too terrible, they will play word games and it’ll cheer him up… and when he gets back home there’ll be no one waiting for him.

He throws the pillow to the other side of the room, and suddenly the air is filled with a sharp, uninterrupted sound. Confused, he thinks for a moment that he’s broken something and it’s the alarm, but soon he realises that it’s just the door bell. Perhaps John forgot his keys, and he’s desperate to tell Martin that he loves him and wants him for always.

God, will the stupid vain hoping never stop? Of course that’s not what’s happening. It’s probably just a mistake, someone ringing at a wrong door. Martin gets up and goes to the door anyway, so that the unrelenting noise stops before it makes his skull crack.

It’s Arthur.

“Hi Skip!” he says cheerily as Martin blinks at him in confusion. “What do you need me to help you with?”

“What?” Martin mumbles, his voice thick.

Arthur’s grin fades a little. “Have you been crying, Skip?”

“No, of course not.”

“There’s nothing with it, you know. I mean, people always say that men don’t cry and whatever, but that’s just rubbish. Sometimes it’s the only thing that helps. Can I come in?”

Martin steps away to let him in without a word.

“What… what are you doing here, Arthur?”

“John called me. Said you needed my help. Where is he, anyway?” He hesitates. “Oh. Is that why…? Have you… had a fight or something?”

“He left,” Martin says flatly.

“What? You don’t mean…” Arthur’s eyes widen in horror.  “Aw, I’m so sorry, Skip! I thought you were going to be together forever! Why would he leave you?”

“He’s in love with someone else,” Martin whispers, and every word slashes through him like a dagger.

“But that’s… that’s impossible! I mean, you’re brilliant!”

Martin looks at him. Arthur looks genuinely shocked, and suddenly it doesn’t matter that Arthur thinks _everyone_ is brilliant, that he _likes_ everyone. What matters is that he likes Martin, he’ll always like him and never judge him or mock him, and before Martin can think about it, he flings his arms around Arthur’s neck.

Arthur squeezes him tightly, whispering “there, there” awkwardly, and he doesn’t seem to mind that his shirt is getting soaked through.

*

John wakes in an unfamiliar bed and wonders for a moment why he feels so wretched. Then he remembers that he’s in a hotel, the same hotel that Sherlock is in, _Sherlock_ , who’s alive and here and wants John, and John has to choose between him and Martin.

He groans and buries his face in the pillow, wishing to go back to sleep. At the same time, he wants to get up and find Sherlock _now._ He knows he should be angry with him, he _is_ angry with him, but it is nothing compared to how happy he is that Sherlock is back. He remembers how for days after Sherlock’s supposed death he clung to the fact that there was no body, hoping for the impossible that has now become possible, and he’d be dizzy with joy right now if it weren’t for Martin.

John is going to hurt him, even more than he already has. There is no way out of this mess that wouldn’t hurt him, apart from letting Sherlock leave again, and John can’t do that anymore than he can stop breathing. It’s been like this ever since the day they first met –  like Sherlock is a magnet, John can’t help being drawn to him.

He doesn’t know if a romantic relationship between him and Sherlock could work, and at the moment he can’t even be sure if he wants it – it’s been three years and they have both changed. They’ll need time to get used to each other again, to figure things out. But John can’t tell Martin to kindly stand by until he decides what exactly he wants from Sherlock, can he? He must make a decision now.

If he was sure that it was the right thing to do, he’d stay with Martin and see Sherlock as little as possible. But then they’d both be plagued with doubts for god knows how long, until John was certain he’d made the right decision, and was able to prove it to Martin. Maybe he’d never be sure. Maybe he’d realise later that he really does love Sherlock more.  He’d only prolong Martin’s pain, without being sure if he could ever make it up to him.

If he leaves him now, surely Martin will have a better chance to recover than if John dragged it out uselessly? He’ll be able to find someone else, someone better, someone who will treat him well and cherish him and love him without having second thoughts.

John has  an urge to be sick when he realises he’s inventing excuses, trying to convince himself that he’s choosing Sherlock for Martin’s sake.

He doesn’t know which of his reasons are real and objective and which are just wishful thinking. The only thing that’s becoming clear is that he wants to be with Sherlock, in whichever way will work for them. He wasn’t lying when he told Martin he loved him, but Sherlock has always seemed larger than life, eclipsing everything else.

John is going to leave Martin.

He doesn’t know if it’s the right thing to do in this situation, or if it just makes him selfish and heartless, unable to sacrifice anything for the man who has sacrificed so much for him.

*

John’s emotions always show on his face. Martin isn’t sure what it expresses now, but it certainly isn’t delight at seeing someone he wants to spend the rest of his life with. Not that Martin was expecting anything of that sort. He knows that John has just come to say goodbye.

“Does he love you?” Martin blurts out, ending the loud silence that stretched between them since John arrived. He isn’t sure whether Arthur’s “ultimate feel-good breakfast” (American-style pizza with tons of cheese and hot chocolate with whipped cream) agrees with his stomach.

John cringes, and says quietly, “I don’t know. I think he might.”

“Would he fake his death if he loved you?” Martin points out. It’s his only weapon, the only thing playing in his favour. If he could only convince John that Sherlock doesn’t love him, or not as much as Martin does, then perhaps… “You were miserable for months because of him. You’ll forgive him that?”

John hesitates. “I… I’m not saying I agree with what he did, but I think I can understand his reasons. He chose a wrong way to do it, but he was trying to keep me out of danger.”

Martin doesn’t know what to say to that, so he remains silent, trying helplessly to come up with something that would make John stay.

John takes a deep breath. “Martin, I…”

“I would never hurt you like he did,” Martin interrupts him. He cannot let John finish that sentence. He cannot. “I love you.”

“I know,” John whispers.

“And I… I understand how you feel about him,” Martin continues, trying to keep his voice calm, “and what life with him means to you, and I know I’m nothing compared to him, but I love you, and if he doesn’t, I mean, you could still be… friends with him, and have adventures and… everything, and  I’d give you what he can’t and I’d never ask for more, I promise, I…”

“Martin,” John says very softly.

Oh god, he’s all but begging John to stay. No wonder John doesn’t want him. John deserves someone with a bit more dignity.

“Martin,” John says again, voice thick with emotion, and without warning, Martin is pulled into an embrace and kisses are pressed in his hair. “I’m sorry. I’m  so sorry, my darling. I love you too. I’m never going to hurt you again, I won’t see Sherlock again, I promise, we’ll stay together and every day I’ll try to make this up to you.”

Martin holds on to him, thinking _yes, yes,_ except..

“But you _want_ to see him again,” Martin says, feeling a bit dazed.

“It doesn’t matter,” John says, holding him close. “Nothing matters but you. I can’t stand to see you hurting like that.”

Martin feels… strangely blank. Somehow, he’s managed to pull the right strings, he has John holding him and kissing him and promising to stay, all that he’s wanted, but it seems… wrong.

He pulls out of John’s arms.

“I don’t want you to stay with me out of guilt, or pity,” he says, suddenly feeling completely drained. “I want you to be happy, and I know you need him for that.”

“I can’t… be stuck between you two, Martin, I’d go mad. And it wouldn’t be fair to you.”

“This is my life, John, it’s not fair by definition,” Martin says bitterly. He can’t believe he’s doing this. “I’d be willing to… share, if it was a way to keep you. But if it has to be one or the other… then it’s not me. I know it’s never been me.”

“I’m sorry.” John’s face is earnest and pained.

“It’s all right,” Martin says, although they both know that it’s as far from all right as possible. But Martin knows how hard it can be to choose between two things you love, that even the right choice can hurt. He had to choose between his dream of flying and his family: he chose the former, and his father died without forgiving him and his brother won’t speak to him unless he has to. The only thing Martin can do now is make it a little easier for John. “You can’t help what you feel.” He wonders if John can see him shaking.

John keeps looking at him with sad eyes. “You’re wonderful person, Martin,” he says eventually. “I know that someone will be very happy with you one day.”

Yes, perhaps a dog, Martin thinks. If he ever has enough money to buy and keep one. He says nothing. He picks up his overnight bag. He’ll spend the night in his van, or perhaps he’ll swallow his pride and call Arthur or Douglas. He just has to be the one to leave. He can’t spend another night in their flat, with the sound of the door falling shut behind John ringing in his ears.

“Is this… it, then?” John asks weakly.

“Yes.” Not a bang but a whimper.

They look at each other for a while, and kiss gently for the last time. Martin feels frighteningly calm when he strokes John’s cheek and turns away, but he knows that it’s just a temporary reprieve.

When he comes home the day after tomorrow, John’s things will be gone.

*

Martin sits in his van in front of Douglas’s house for at least half an hour before he gets out. He never visited Douglas without a reason. Can you even do that? Just show up at your friend’s house because you feel horrible? Maybe Douglas’s daughter is there, or one of his lady friends, and Douglas will only be annoyed to see him. Martin doesn’t think he could take that right now.

He is saved from further panic by Douglas opening the door.

“Martin?” he asks, surprised. “Have you forgotten where you live?”

Martin shuffles his feet awkwardly. “No, I just thought… that is, I was wondering if you’d perhaps like to go for a pint. With me.”

Douglas frowns. “I don’t drink,” he points out.

“Oh. Of course, stupid of me. Right. Sorry. I’ll just… I mean, I’d better…”

“I do, however,” Douglas interrupts him, a hint of what almost sounds like worry in his voice, “own a wide array of alcoholic drinks that you’re welcome to partake of. I’d much prefer it to having to look for your inebriated self in one of Fitton’s many pubs.”

Martin has little recollection of what happened next. He remembers drinking red wine and expensive whiskey and something else he doesn’t know the name of, and he has a dark suspicion that he told Douglas much more than his First Officer wanted to know. He wakes up on Douglas’s sofa, covered with a woollen blanket and with a splitting headache. Carolyn nearly has a fit when she sees that her captain is no state to fly a plane, but Douglas manages on his own and Arthur brings Martin aspirins and endless cups of coffee.

It’s probably one of the worst flights Martin has ever had, but at least he doesn’t have to think about John.

*

John spends a few following days at the hotel. Sherlock has gone to London to catch Sebastian Moran, leaving John to decide whether he wanted to follow. John quits his job at the surgery and sees to a few things that need to be done, like paying the rent for ~~his and~~ Martin’s flat for the next three months. At least Martin won’t have to worry about money. John wishes there was something more he could do for him.

When the practicalities are sorted out, John takes some time to sort _himself_ out. The twenty-four hours after Sherlock’s return were an emotional rollercoaster that John needs to recover from. Of course, a couple of days won’t be enough. He doesn’t suppose he’ll ever stop feeling guilty about what he did to Martin. Every time he thinks about the look on his face when he turned away from John for the last time, it sends a stab through his heart. He hates that it was him who did that to Martin, and he hates that the only thing he can do now is hope Martin will be all right and find happiness with someone else.

All this doesn’t really dampen the overwhelming sense of homecoming that washes over him when he drags his luggage through the door to 221 Baker Street. He wonders if Mrs Hudson is home; he’d very much like to see her. But first – Sherlock.

He climbs the seventeen steps slowly, savouring every moment. How could he ever have felt at home anywhere else?

The door to the flat flies open before John even touches it. Sherlock is wearing his old purple shirt and a manic expression and John’s heart leaps at the sight of him.

 _Yes. Home._

“John,” Sherlock breathes, and never has John’s name seemed to have so many different meanings. Sherlock grabs John’s wrist, dragging him inside, looking at him as if John was some sort of miracle. John notices a fading bruise around his left eye.

“John,” Sherlock says again and John finds that he has no words to respond with.

He lets the moment stretch between them, filled with something unspoken, and they held each other’s gaze until John asks, “Who gave you a black eye?”

“Oh, that,” Sherlock says, as if he had forgotten about it. “Lestrade. And Mrs Hudson slapped me, and now she refuses to speak to me.” He swallows audibly. “Interesting, isn’t it, how violent emotions tend to manifest themselves physically.”

John reaches up to brush a stray curl from Sherlock’s eyes, and he feels a violent emotion right now, though he isn’t sure what it is.

“Lestrade didn’t kiss me before hitting me, though,” Sherlock continues hesitantly.

“Good,” John says. “That would’ve been weird.”

“Yes,” Sherlock murmurs, leaning into John’s touch slightly. “Can I… Can I kiss you now?”

“No,” John says, even as every cell in his body screams _yes_. “Not yet. I need time to get used to this. I think we both do.”

Sherlock nods immediately, hiding his disappointment well. “Of course. Anything you need. Anything.”

John smiles. “Right now, I could do with a cup of tea.”

Sherlock springs to action, starts making John tea for the first time in his life. He doesn’t finish making it, though – his phone beeps before he even puts the kettle on. He skims through the text quickly, and the well-known glint appears in his eyes.

“What is it?” John asks, and he can feel his heart rate speed up.

“There’s been a series of seemingly unrelated locked-room murders in the last two months,” Sherlock says. “Lestrade’s on the case. I was wondering if he was still too angry with me to let me in on it. It turns out he isn’t.”

“I suppose he’s just too glad that you’re alive to refuse to see you,” John says. “I know the feeling. Well? Are we going?”

Sherlock grins at him, delight flooding his face. “Of course.”

John grins back.

As they rush down the stairs, just like they had on the very first night, John knows beyond any doubt that this is right. His place is by Sherlock’s side, it’s where he belongs and where he wants to be. He misses Martin and there is a dull ache inside his chest that he knows will take a long time to dissipate, but will get better.

He made the right choice.

*

Carolyn starts paying Martin two weeks after John leaves. She says it’s because MJN Air is finally getting out of debt, but Martin knows what the real reason is – that he looks so miserable that even Carolyn pities him. The sum she pays him is measly, but it means Martin could take less van jobs. He doesn’t, though – what would he do with his time if he wasn’t working? He has no hobbies and no one to spend his free time with, and the extra money could come in handy when something goes wrong, as he knows it will.

He knows John paid the rent for their flat, but he can’t stay there, not with the memories assaulting him in every corner. He moves to a basement bedsit – it’s small and there’s not much light, but it’s clean and cheap, and that’s all Martin requires. Just a place to hide from the world.

He soon falls into a routine similar to the one he had before John – an endless cycle of flights and van jobs and solitary nights. He cries himself to sleep only a few times, when the pain of missing John combined with the knowledge that he’ll always be alone becomes too much.

He knows he’ll never find anyone else – how could he? He doesn’t know how to talk to strangers, and even if he did, who’d want to talk to him? But that’s all right. Plenty of people live alone. It’s not such a terrible fate.

Sometimes he stares at his phone and wants to text John, find out how he is, but he can’t. He hopes that he’ll be able to do it in time, after the pain has numbed a little. Then perhaps the happy moments he and John shared will become a source of comfort rather than anguish. Until then, he has to learn to live with the pain. He concentrates on his job as pilot, all meaning of his existence narrowing to the next flight, and he copes. That’s what he always does, whatever happens, no matter how much it hurts – he copes, somehow.


	3. Epilogue

There’s a ring at the front door.

Douglas smiles to himself. His plan is working. Not that there has ever been any possibility of its _not_ working. His plans always work. Well, almost always, but that’s irrelevant, since this one is going to work if it’s the last thing Douglas does.

“Can you get the door, Tom?” he calls out to his nephew. “I’m busy.” He hopes the boy had enough sense to put on the shirt Douglas had given him. God knows Tom didn’t inherit the irresistible Richardson sex-appeal, and the ridiculous t-shirts with cartoon characters on them he insists on wearing certainly don’t help him to end his almost two-year-long period of celibacy. Luckily, he has Uncle Douglas to sort things out for him.

He hears Tom run down the stairs and open the door, and then, of course, the inevitable silence that follows.

“Err… I’m looking for Douglas Richardson?” says Martin’s confused voice.

“Oh, yes, sorry, of course you are,” says Tom hurriedly. “Please come in, I’ll go and…”

No no no, Tom certainly can’t go and get him. He’s not getting out of this. Douglas rushes into the hall.

“Martin! What brings you here?” he asks, even though he knows – he “forgot” his bag at the airfield, knowing Martin would bring it to him – because he is kind, and also because it’s painfully obvious he’s desperate for company.

“You forgot your bag,” Martin says, looking relieved at seeing him. He was probably already thinking he’d somehow got confused and came to a wrong house. Something like that could probably happen to Martin.

“Ah, silly old me,” Douglas says, taking the bag from Martin, and thinks _clever me_. “Tom, this is Martin Crieff, my revered captain. Martin, my nephew Tom.”

“Nice to meet you,” both Martin and Tom blurt out, and both blush, and it’s a terrible shame that Douglas hadn’t thought of a way to record this meeting for posterity. He’s sure Carolyn would have loved to see it.

“I – I didn’t know you had a nephew, Douglas,” Martin says, because _of course_ he’s going to talk to Douglas, instead of addressing the young, perhaps not drop-dead-gorgeous but still relatively good-looking, unattached gay man Douglas has brought straight to him.

“It’s not such an uncommon state of affairs, is it? You have one yourself, I think.”

“I don’t, actually,” Martin says. “Only three nieces. A-a-although my brother and his wife are now expecting again and… Obviously only Laura is expecting as in being pregnant, but Simon is expecting as in waiting. And it could be a nephew. I mean boy! It could be a boy. Who’d be my nephew.”

Ah, Martin is babbling and from time to time he actually glances in Tom’s direction. That’s a good sign.

“He’d probably want to be a pilot like you,” Tom says, obviously trying hard to be polite and make conversation, and Douglas feels proud of him for choosing the best possible topic. “I remember I wanted to be a pilot like Uncle Douglas when I was kid.”

Martin’s face lights up, and he instantly gives Tom all his attention.

“Actually,” he says, and really, his ability to blush is unparalleled, “my niece Jeannie – she’s six – wants to be a pilot. She has all those picture books and toy planes and she always wants me to explain things, but her parents don’t approve because I…” he stops, suddenly looking slightly panicked. “They don’t approve.”

After Tom’s shocked enquiry whether Jeannie’s parents don’t approve because they think it’s not a job for a woman, Douglas manages to steer them to the living room and disappears to the kitchen, pretending to be busy cooking. He congratulates himself on the brilliant idea to introduce Tom and Martin to each other, and only wishes he’d thought of it sooner.

The truth is, Martin hasn’t been much fun these past few months, ever since he and John broke up. Martin refused to explain it properly, but from his drunken mumblings Douglas managed to make out that John had left him for someone else. Douglas knows there was more to it than that, but Martin doesn’t want to speak about it. All that’s clear is that Martin is deeply hurt. Of course, he is Martin and prone to overreacting, and it was his first relationship, but it couldn’t have been just that.

Martin has been… dejected. Douglas can’t even tease him, when instead of turning red in the face and starting to splutter, he just bows his head and remains silent. It’s no fun, and it does something alarming to Douglas’s heart. Douglas knows that deep down Martin has never had a high opinion of himself, but it seems to have become even lower now. If Douglas ever comes across John Watson again, he’ll make sure the man remembers it for a long time.

What Martin needs is to find someone else, but he seems to hold out even less hope that it could happen than he did before John. Luckily, he has his First Officer to sort things out for him.

Tom would be right for him, Douglas thinks. He hasn’t had much luck in the love department, either, and his last boyfriend was an utter bastard, and if Douglas ever comes across _him_ again, he’ll make sure that he remembers nothing at all. This last experience made Tom, who’s never been very outgoing, retreat even further into his shell. But there’s no one more non-threatening than Martin, and Douglas is sure that a way for  Martin to overcome his insecurities would be helping someone else to overcome theirs. They could help each other.

Douglas listens to them talking about why Tom decided to be a translator instead of a pilot, and he thinks it’s going rather well. They seem to be having a relatively normal conversation, which is impressive, given that one of them has a tendency to babble nonsensically and the other to keep quiet for as long as possible. It could work. Douglas will have to provide them with plentiful opportunities to see each other before one of them gathers the courage to ask the other out, but Douglas is nothing if not resourceful. And he wants the old Martin back.

*

Martin lies in bed, staring at the brown patch on the ceiling. He had a strange dream. It’s becoming blurry already, but he thinks it had something to do with the time he and John went to Duxford Air Museum. His thoughts drift lazily to the terrible restaurant they went to afterwards and how they kept laughing even though the food was awful because something was very funny – Martin can’t remember what it was.

After a moment Martin realises that he’s feeling kind of weird. It takes him another moment to work out that no, he’s not feeling weird, he’s feeling… normal. All right. He’s thinking about John and it’s not making him feel wretched. When did this happen?

It’s been almost nine months since he and John broke up, so it’s about time. And it probably also has something to do with Douglas’s nephew.  They went to the cinema yesterday, and then Tom walked him home, and Martin was feeling brave and so he kissed him, and Tom smiled at him in a way that made something flutter in Martin’s ribcage.

Martin’s being cautious, of course. He barely dares to hope. But Tom is really quite lovely, and he seems to be just as nervous as Martin, and Martin finds himself wanting to be strong for him, make him feel at ease. Tom isn’t very talkative himself, but he always listens to Martin, he actually seems to _like_ it, and Martin never feels inadequate with him and it’s… nice. Really, really nice.

Martin reaches for his phone that’s sitting on the bedside table, wondering whether it’s too early to text Tom, barely nine hours after their first date. He finds a text already waiting for him.

*

John isn’t furious yet, but he’s getting there. He hasn’t slept for god knows how long, their suspect has just flown off on a plane they missed by _two bloody minutes_ , he went to use the airport’s bathrooms and when he came back to where Sherlock was supposed to be waiting for him, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. Now John is standing in the middle of the Gatwick Airport arrivals hall, and when someone bumps into him and runs off without apologising, it seems like the last drop.

John turns after the young man, and sees him rush towards a very familiar figure dressed in captain’s uniform. John blinks. No, he’s not imagining things. It’s definitely _Martin_ who’s currently being pulled into a tight hug. John watches the couple dazedly as they kiss, oblivious to the world around them.

John remembers that Martin’s job sometimes kept him away from home for a longer period of time. He’s probably only just returned to England.  He’d be back in Fitton in a few hours, tomorrow at the latest, but the chestnut-haired young man obviously couldn’t wait so long. And nor could Martin – John cannot see the rest of MJN anywhere, which means Martin must have run ahead.

They stop kissing and just hold on to each other, and Martin is looking at the other man like he used to look at John, but there’s something different, something that probably has a lot to do with the fact that this man doesn’t hurt him. Martin’s boyfriend looks at him with similar adoration, and John can’t help but let out a sigh and smile.

Martin’s all right. John didn’t break him. He’s happy and in love and loved in return. It makes something warm burst inside John’s chest, and he can’t remember what he was angry about.

**Author's Note:**

> [Chinese translation](http://tieba.baidu.com/p/1785010097)
> 
> by yuannmaa

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for The End of the Road](https://archiveofourown.org/works/910839) by [moonblossom graphics (moonblossom)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom%20graphics)




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